Thank God for the Gunny

Thank the good Lord for our Gunny. I was beginning to think that I wasn't capable of getting along with Marines. In Alaska I had problems with a Marine Staff Sergeant. And then another. And two Corporals. And I think a Lance. And together they made up about 90% of the Marines on the island. It didn't go well and I thought the problem might be me: I might not be cut out for even the most cursory relationship with any Marine (except one in particular who was in every way the exception to the rule). But the Marine Corps adviser in our battalion, the Gunny, who is old and crusty and angry and in every way what I think a Marine should be, is a guy who I get along with in the best way. We've been spending hours in the same room planning and executing military training for Headquarters Company and there isn't so much as a snag in our relationship. He's restored my faith in Marines.

On a completely different topic: so much happened in my meeting with the skipper. I'm going to jot it all down (not tonight, because I have knitting) but first I have to figure out how to organize my thoughts.

Tomorrow

My rescheduled meeting with the CO is tomorrow afternoon at 1:30. I’m sort of excited even though it means that I’ll be ironing my uniform and shining my boots during lunch. I hate shining boots.

Lucky 13

This morning, in lieu of PT, we weighed in. I hate weigh-in. Every six months we stand on a scale in a very public place to determine if we’re fit enough to stay in the Navy. Three failures and we’re out. To be fair it’s more than just weight: there’s also sit-ups, push-ups and a short run. But none of that ever makes me nervous. It’s the public weighing that sucks. Today I’m 5’11” (you wouldn’t think my height would change, but the last three weigh-ins I was measured at an even 6’ and in boot camp some misguided soul deemed me 5’10”) and thirteen pounds under the limit for my height. If I was still six feet I would be nineteen pounds under the cut-off, which is almost twenty, which would make me feel awesome, but I’m not six feet tall today. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to separate weight from control and self-worth issues. A difference of five pounds drastically changes how I think the world takes me in and spits me out. And so I try to keep it in check. But the really overwhelming part when it comes to weight is my torrid affair with food. I absolutely LOVE food. Yesterday I literally woke up wanting spinach pizza. My eyes opened, I remembered that I was dog sitting for friends and that Basil needed to go out, and after the brief canine distraction the Spinach Pizza Monster grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. I was helpless. And so I had it for dinner with half a bottle of red wine. And that was after a lunch of parsley and Parmesan biscuits. This morning is coffee and these amazing logs of dense bread studded with raisins, walnuts, and apples and sweetened with lots of honey and cinnamon. They’re even more amazing hot out of the toaster with copious amounts of sweet butter - so that’s how I eat them. Trader Joe’s calls them Primeval Bars. And for some reason one wasn’t enough this morning so I had two. Basil hasn’t touched his breakfast. He’s at my feet as I type quietly gnawing on a rawhide bone. I’m already thinking about lunch.